


Epilogue

by SiennaSky



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 02:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17235818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SiennaSky/pseuds/SiennaSky
Summary: They've gone from having nothing to having everything. Five years. What a difference they can make.Post-finale fic. Spoilers through 2x12.





	Epilogue

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick one-shot as a follow-up to the finale. I haven't read any post-finale fics because I've been working on this, so I'm fairly certain this is probably white noise in the din of better stories (ahem…I'm looking at you, "Darling, So It Goes") but here it is just the same. I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for stopping by! :)

 

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**EPILOGUE**

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**1.**

One bedroom.

It's a cozy space, all glossy wood and speckled granite and gleaming fixtures. The fireplace looks to be original to the old building with ornate scrolls and curls forming the small mantle, and the floors emit a slight creak beneath the pressure of their steps — the kind of noise that makes the place feel cozy and familiar in spite of its newness to them.

There's an assortment of creased and dented boxes with descriptors scrawled across the flaps in faded black sharpie: kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, and books. The boxes are clustered in small, precarious stacks at the center of the room as they try and decide what to do with everything. With a sigh, Lucy glances around the small apartment and can't stop herself from smiling.

Getting here has been a trek. In more ways than one.

Official release from the bunker had been a massive relief to all of them, but it had also introduced a barrage of new dilemmas. Despite their obvious anticipation of a return to some semblance of normal, there were things they hadn't had time to fully process given the rapid-fire unfolding of events. Rufus had been faced with the task of reappearing in the lives of his mother and brother, and he'd had to become acquainted with the slight differences between the current timeline and the one in which he'd died. Jiya, on the other hand, had been forced to face life back in normal modern society after three years of struggle in 1888 Chinatown. Wyatt, of course, had needed to adjust to his new assignment to Special Projects with Agent Christopher, while also wrapping his head around Jessica's betrayal and subsequent re-elimination. And Lucy had needed to focus on coming to terms with the permanence of Amy's absence, on accepting the apparent death of her mother in this timeline, and on preparing for a return to academia — to teaching a history that has become so vastly different from the history she once knew so well.

Add to that list the complexity of their romantic relationships, the shock of emerging from a literal underground existence for months, and the struggle to cope with the loss of Flynn for the sake of their own futures. To say that the transition had been an easy one would be an outright lie, but it had been worth the every ounce of struggle. At least so far.

They're all in a good place now — the best they've been in a very long while — but they each needed to find their footing. They still need to, really, because they need stable ground beneath them before they can even think of taking swift and certain steps forward.

For Lucy, the first of those steps had been finding a new home.

It's no secret that the housing market in the Bay Area is a nightmare, but Lucy had quickly decided that she had absolutely no desire to move back into the once-beloved house she'd shared with her mother and sister. Not after everything that had happened. Too many false memories. Too many lies. Too much deception. So while the spacious Burlingame house had always been home, the idea of living in a place with such long-standing Rittenhouse ties seemed counterproductive to her intense efforts to get a fresh start.

So she sold it.

Her real estate agent had practically salivated over the listing. A large and airy home with vintage charm and modern upgrades? In an upscale, tree-lined neighborhood? The beautiful home had sold for well above asking within the week, and Lucy found herself in the market for a fresh start.

Wyatt's fresh start proved to be a bit easier to find. On the housing front, at least.

He had almost immediately forked over an obscene amount of money to rent a one-bedroom apartment in Redwood City, and it had gone without saying that she would stay with him until she could find a place of her own. Her constant presence in his space had been almost accidental at the start. After fighting so hard to finally be together, neither of them had wanted to separate for more than a few hours. On top of their honeymoonish inability to keep their hands off each other, stepping out of the bunker had been like emerging from the remnants of some apocalyptic natural disaster, and it felt only right to face the world together in the wake of their shared experiences. Even prior to the sale of her house, she'd stayed with Wyatt just to be with him. After the agony of pushing him away to be with Jessica, the very thought of taking a step back, of not being within reach for the soft press of his lips or the hard press of his body felt a bit like turning down a glass of water after being parched for days on end.

This time together had also given them the chance to have some difficult but necessary conversations. Wyatt was finally able provide an extensive explanation and a sincere apology for his handling of the Jessica situation. And Lucy had the opportunity to own her part of the debacle, to admit her reluctance to speak her own truth. They each finally managed to acknowledge that they were both so fixated on doing the right and moral thing that it kept them from doing the truly right and moral thing: being honest about and submitting to their feelings for one another.

Their living arrangement had gone on like this for the better part of a month when Wyatt had finally looked searchingly at her from his comfortable perch on the couch, his socked feet propped on the coffee table as a college basketball game flickered on the screen. She was curled up in the small window seat, gazing vacantly out the bay window, pretending to read a book as the steam from her hot tea unfurled in delicate wisps. She had seen several nice apartments, condos, and even a few beautiful bungalows, but none of them had felt right. She was feeling strangely unsettled every time she thought of moving, and she was feeling unusually anxious about the fact that she would be starting back at Stanford for the spring quarter in just eight weeks.

"What are you doing?"

She was startled by the abruptness of the question in the comfortable hum of a quiet Saturday, and she turned to look at him in surprise. "Reading." She nodded pointedly at the open book in her lap. If she was going to be teaching two US History courses upon her return to work, she would need to read up on the history of this timeline. Just in case.

"No, I mean...what are you doing?"

Her expression pinched slightly in confusion, her hair forming an unruly silhouette against the backlight of the window. "What are you...I don't understand…what do you mean?"

There was a sudden lilt to his half-smile, and he set the TV remote down before getting up and crossing over to her. He nudged her gently so he could wedge himself into the small cushioned space beside her, and he watched her earnestly as he spoke. "You're agonizing. You're stressing over finding a place to live, over finding a job, over us, over all of it."

She felt like she'd been caught in the midst of some reprehensible act, and she flushed slightly. "I'm not agonizing over us. That's the one thing that's not upsetting me," she counters primly.

There was a long pause, and she resisted the urge to squirm beneath his penetrating gaze. She could feel him watching her, analyzing her, puzzling her out so he could help to make things better for her. That was what they did for each other.

Finally, he spoke. "Lucy, when we were in that church in North Korea, you said that you didn't want to waste time. You wanted to focus on the present because the past is the past and the future isn't promised."

"And?" she prodded curiously. She was uncertain of where he was headed with this.

"This is the present, Lucy," he stated emphatically. "This moment right now. And we lose these moments if we spend them worrying about things that, in the big scheme of things, aren't worth the loss."

"Wyatt, I need a place to live," she remarked dryly. "And my degrees make me an expert on the history of an obsolete timeline, so, yeah, I'm a little nervous about teaching a history I haven't studied."

Wyatt smiled wryly at her words and continued, "As someone who has worked with way more than my fair share of geniuses, I can safely say that you are one of the smartest people I've ever met. If the history being taught is incorrect, you'll find a way to fix it. Hell, you'll probably rewrite every damn textbook until the Alice Pauls and the Harriet Tubmans and the Bass Reeves get the recognition they deserve. And you do have a place to live. Look around you."

She stared thoughtfully at him for a moment, his eyes looking startlingly blue in the light, and then she tore her gaze from his to take a surveying look at her surroundings. Her books were stacked haphazardly on the shelves of the small built-ins, their worn spines emblazoned with romanticized titles referencing dramatic moments in history. Her coat and scarf were hanging next to his on the set of hooks near the front door. Her laptop was in sleep mode on the dining room table, and her purse hung over the back of one of the chairs. She knew without even looking that her favorite floral robe was hanging on the back of the bathroom door and that the bathroom was filled with the sweet scent of her jasmine shampoo. He'd taken to keeping a bottle of her favorite Merlot on hand, and she'd taken to chucking his dirty laundry in with hers whenever she did a load. Her life had been leaking so slowly into his that she hadn't even noticed the seamless meshing of the two.

She found herself pondering this newly obvious revelation for a moment before she inquired cautiously, "Are you sure this isn't moving too quickly?"

He cocked his head and gave her a dark look of disbelief. "Seriously?"

She shrugged sheepishly. "We've only been together for a month. You have to admit, It's a little crazy."

Wyatt reached over to give her knees a reassuring squeeze. "Lucy, you know better than anyone that our situation just isn't that simple. We've been a couple for a month. We've been together in the ways that matter for a lot longer than that. We've both wanted this for a long time. This is it for me. Why wait? I've been sure about this since before we ever left that hellhole. I've just been waiting for you to figure it out."

The casual confidence of his words elicited a pleased smile, and she dropped her hands onto his, giving his fingers an affectionate squeeze in response. She nods. "You're right." She paused before adding, "But don't get used to hearing that."

They had pulled several boxes of her belongings out of storage the very next day.

Which brings her to the present. The here and now. To their apartment.

Glancing around at the limited space, she sighs contentedly at the belongings of hers that have already found a home in this space. But then she looks warily at the large stack of boxes that have yet to be unpacked. Where the hell is she going to keep all of her books?

She's startled from her reverie when Wyatt calls from the bedroom, "You okay? You're awfully quiet out there."

Turning on her heels, she pads down the short hallway, peering into the bedroom to see several empty boxes next to the dresser where they've already unpacked her clothing. Now he's busily making the bed with…wait...what?

"Are those flannel sheets?"

Wyatt shrugs sheepishly at her observation and rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck before squaring his shoulders and turning to face her head-on. He nods bravely, announcing, "And I'm about to get you some more socks too. Your toes are like ice by the time morning rolls around. I had a dream the other night that I was sleeping in a giant tray of ice cubes."

She snorts in response to his indignant declaration and then steps in to meet him, sliding her hands up the sturdiness of his chest. His expression softens almost immediately as he takes her in, his eyes drifting lovingly over her dark eyes, her wispy flyaways, and her delicate features. A cloudy veil of sadness settles into his expression, and she sighs. He does this ever so often — fades into his own guilt — and it's her job to reel him back.

"Hey," she murmurs softly, catching his chin and gently turning his eyes up to hers. She gives him a teasing smile. "I'll try to keep my ice cubes to myself, alright?"

The lightness of the remark does the trick, and the heaviness lifts away, leaving nothing behind but a bright blue stare and a hint of flirtation.

"I'm not sure that's the best solution," he drawls lazily in response, his strong fingers drumming playfully against her hips. "Maybe just...start with the socks."

She gives a sharp and decisive nod. "Deal."

"Good," he nods, satisfied, and then nearly blinds her with his smile. "Now that we've managed to leap that hurdle, I'm more concerned about another issue."

"Which is?"

He shrugs and then gestures out towards the small living room. "You sure you're going to be able to handle this dinky little apartment after that mansion of a place you gave up?” he asks teasingly. "This isn't exactly Nob Hill."

She rolls her eyes at the absurd notion. "Have you forgotten that we were living in a literal bunker? Anything is an upgrade so long as it's above-ground. The fact that we get to subsist on something more appetizing than instant oatmeal and Spaghetti-Os feels like the height of luxury. Besides," she remarks with a coy smile, "it's not like we require a lot of space. I think we're actually quite efficient in that respect."

"Fair point," Wyatt concedes. "We'll consider this living arrangement a nod to efficiency." He shrugs and then adds, "Plus, this place definitely smells better with you here."

"I won't argue that point," she returns archly, a teasing glint in her eye.

"So, the two of us all alone in a one bedroom, huh?"

Lucy links her arms around his neck and nods, feigning a scandalized tone. "I know. What's next? One shopping cart? One checking account? One library card?"

"Oh, wow. You _would_ equate a joint library card with domestic bliss," he chuckles with a bemused eye roll.

"Hey, I told you from the get-go that I'm a huge nerd. This was no bait and switch. There are no returns."

He eyes her for a moment, his gaze nearly caressing each plain and curve of her face. "No returns needed, ma'am. I'm in it for the long haul. And for what it's worth, I'm here for each of the things you listed."

"Even the library card?" she questions brightly.

"Especially the library card," he responds with a laugh.

She smiles warmly at his words and then sees the tenderness of his expression give way to something decidedly more suggestive. "What?" she wonders suspiciously.

She squeaks slightly when he turns and nudges her backwards maintaining a steadying hold on her waist until she's leaning against the side of the bed. "I'm thinking we should explore that 'one bed' part of this arrangement."

"And test out these flannel sheets?" she adds innocently, reaching back to brush her fingertips across the soft fabric.

"Definitely," he agrees, hefting her up and tossing her gently onto the mattress where she lands with a loud belly laugh.

And then his lips are on hers and her hands are lifting the hem of his shirt to brush teasingly against the warmth of his chest. His hands are roving with expert precision over her curves and under fabric, and then she's moaning because he knows just how to find _that_ spot and... _God_ , life is good.

His tongue tickles the sensitive skin around her belly button as he kisses a very purposeful path down her body, and she can't help but think as she's arching and gripping a fistful of flannel that maybe they're already getting the hang of this one bedroom thing.

Then he blows an unexpected raspberry against her belly and they both break out into a fit of hysterical laughter. Yeah, they're figuring it out.

One bedroom. One future. Together.

* * *

  
  
  
**2.**

Two lines.

She reads the directions repeatedly beneath the unyielding brightness of the bathroom light, at one point even circling the most important words with a fine-tip ballpoint pen to make sure she's not misreading the miniscule lines of text. She re-reads the circled text and then immediately groans — partly out of frustration and partly because she's just annotated a cardboard box. The two lines probably won't send Wyatt screaming, but her annotations just might.

Two months. Two blissful months.

And now two lines.

Wyatt is in Washington D.C. with Agent Christopher for some sort of briefing, so she's on her own as she tries to sort through the maelstrom of confusing emotions spinning through her, whirling like ribbons of excitement and elation and then reversing course with nauseating rapidity into a spiral of utter terror. In one of several moments of blind panic, she grabs her phone and scrolls to his name, tapping the screen and then pressing the device against her ear in a white-knuckled hold. He doesn't answer, but it doesn't deter her because she simply hangs up and tries again. She repeats the frantic cycle three more times until, finally, the terror ebbs ever-so-slightly, and she takes a moment to think things through.

She thinks she's happy. It's something she's always wanted and never truly believed she would have. The looming threat of Rittenhouse and the constant calls to leap through time had pretty much confirmed her belief that motherhood just wasn't a part of her very convoluted destiny. Somewhere deep inside of her, there was always a spike of regret over the loss of this thing she never actually had. This fantasy of a daughter who would learn about Alice Paul and Harriet Tubman and Amelia Earhart. A daughter who would dress herself in eclectic outfits and wear her hair in braids and follow her dreams to whatever destinations she wished for herself. Or a son who would crave stories pulled straight from her own adventures, tromping around the backyard like a bold explorer and fantasizing about the trails he would blaze as a kind and courageous man.

But there's also a lingering sense of fear that nibbles at the furthest reaches of her brain. What if someone manages to resurrect Rittenhouse? She's seen how important bloodlines are to that bunch of nepotistic and elitist psychos, and even a "half-Preston" might be alluring to someone so fixed on the preservation of the Rittenhouse line.

And what about time-travel? Is it really over? Because she can't fathom kissing her child good-bye just to go hurtling through time to stop God-knows-who from destroying God-knows-what. She knows better than anyone the devastating effects of tampering with the crepey fragility of a tenuous timeline. The idea of returning from every jump and waiting with bated breath for that hatch to open just so she can ascertain the presence or absence of her own child? She can't handle that kind of tumult.

But a baby? With Wyatt? She loves him so much. And she knows now, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he loves her just as fiercely. So how could this be anything but a beautiful gift? A miracle even? What about this could possibly be wrong or ill-timed? What could be more perfect in this absolute mess of a world?

The thought of it brings a begrudging smile to her face. Because for all of the risks and all of the dangers and all of the uncertainty, she really can't think of anything with the potential to make her happier than a future and a family with him. And she can only hope (and suspect) that he will feel the same way. Neither one of them is qualified to take on the role of parent, but given their shared ability to adapt to nearly any situation in any time and any place, she has a feeling it's a role they'll step into quite comfortably.

She's pretty proud of herself for managing to talk herself down from her own hysterical ledge, and by dinnertime, she's curled up on the couch with her laptop, pondering nursery decor and car seats and pacifiers. She's so engrossed in the development of this newfound fantasy that she doesn't notice the first time her phone rings. When the rattling motion finally catches her attention the second time around, she would swear on her life that it seems to be ringing with a unique urgency that reflects the high tensions of just a little while ago.

He calls her every night just around dinner when he's away. It's one of the many constants they have established over the course of their relationship, and she appreciates the sound stability of the routine. There's something warm and sleepy about an evening phone call with him, and while she would prefer to have him here in person, she loves the intimacy of their hushed phone conversations. But this? She doesn't want to deliver this news over the phone. This requires face-to-face delivery. She needs to see his reaction. She needs to see his eyes.

So she decides to wait. Play it cool.

She takes a breath before answering, "Hey!" And she immediately winces at the intense eagerness of the greeting. So much for cool.

He doesn't seem to notice and barrels forward. "Lucy! You didn't answer the first time I called. Are you okay? What's going on?"

Okay, so maybe she hadn't been imagining the urgency of her phone's movements. Does Siri sense emotions?

"Sure," she replies, trying her damnedest to project a breezy tone. "I'm fine."

It doesn't work.

"Then why did you call me four times in a three minute span?" he wonders suspiciously. "You scared the hell out of me. I thought you'd been in an accident or something." A thread of doubt remains stitched into his words, and she knows he's still not entirely convinced that she's okay.

He confirms her suspicion when he asks again, "Are you sure you're okay?"

The worry roughens the normally smooth timbre of his words, and his low voice is like sandpaper softening the jagged edges of her nerves. She lets herself sink into it for a long moment. She loves talking to him on the phone. She loves the sound of him.

But she's not prepared to ease his fears and she offers what might be the most inane explanation possible. "Oh, uh, I must have butt-dialed you!" Her words roll out too quickly, too perkily.

He doesn't mince words. "Four times?"

She can hear the skepticism in his tone.

"Lucy," he murmurs, his voice deep and unnervingly perceptive. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," she insists. "Everything is fine. I just...I miss you."

The line between them is silent for a beat. And then, "Yeah, I miss you, too. And I love you."

It takes several more minutes of casual conversation before she's satisfied that he's convinced of her wellbeing. She asks him about his trip and he asks her about her first week of classes. He asks her what she ordered for dinner, and she asks him what time his flight will arrive the next day. The utter normalcy of their conversation sets her mind and heart at ease once again, so that when she curls up on his side of the bed, she sleeps soundly from the moment she nestles tiredly into his pillow.

Or at least she does until the bed dips behind her and she feels the scrape of his stubble against her cheek. She turns over to see him lying behind her, still fully-clothed. He feels cool to the touch and he smells like a winter night. She leans back into him and shivers at the icy touch of his nose against her neck but burrows into the cocoon of his embrace.

"What are you doing here? You weren't supposed to be back for another two days," she mutters through sleep-slurred words.

A skeptical chuckle erupts from somewhere deep in his chest. "Lucy, I know you. Sometimes I think I know your emotions better than I know my own. I could hear the strain in your voice. I caught the first flight back because I knew I wouldn't get any straight answers from you while I was across the country. You needed me here for whatever it is."

She's still blinking blearily over her shoulder at him, not quite believing that he's actually right there, holding her. Touching her. Looking at her expectantly.

"Well?" he prompts.

"Uh…" she clears her throat before continuing. "Just one second." He watches her, a hint of concern in the barely perceptible kink of his brow as she climbs out of their bed and shuffles into the bathroom. She returns after a moment, looking disheveled with her wild hair and her worn t-shirt and her faded pajama bottoms. There's an unfamiliar trepidation coloring her expression and rattling her movements as she holds something up in front of him.

"Two lines," she remarks softly.

It takes him a beat to realize what he's looking at, to understand what the hell she means with a phrase as cryptic as "two lines." But then it hits him with all the force of a shovel to the face, and even he is surprised by the powerful torrent of joy, the utter force of happiness that surges through him and pours into the heavy silence of the small bedroom.

In a flash, he's on his feet and he has her in his arms and they're turning circles until she's not sure whether her lightheadedness is the fizzy side effect of his overflowing joy or an unintended consequence of his passionate spins. His excitement is both contagious and soothing, and Lucy finds herself nearly sagging with relief at the bright light in his eyes.

He doesn't even shower or unpack that night, and she's fairly certain that he doesn't take his eyes off her for the next twelve hours. Instead, he changes out of his clothes, climbs into the bed beside her, and holds her reverently until she drifts off and the sun creeps through the panes of their bedroom window, at which point he awakens her with a kiss, a plate of pancakes, and a discussion of potential baby names.

Pregnancy is fascinating to both of them. Every nearby surface is soon scattered with books on the subject, and they both watch with fascination as the subtle changes to her body become less subtle and more pronounced over time. The dazed look of joy rarely leaves Wyatt's face, and he feels the frequent need to pinch himself, to make sure this timeline is real, to determine that this isn't some torturously blissful dream. He's a steadfast beam of support for Lucy during her most frazzled pregnant moments. He's as attentive and enthusiastic as she could ever have hoped, and she knows it's because he sees this as his second chance — his opportunity to build the family and the future he always wanted — with her.

Lucy can feel his excitement and disbelief in the slight tremble of his hand as he clutches hers and watches in awe at the slight wobbling motion appearing through what appears to be a mess of blots and scribbles on the screen during her first ultrasound. And then she swears she can feel the pounding of his heart and the hot rush of joy surging from the tips of her fingers directly to her heart when the quirked eyebrows and quiet murmurs of suspicion are confirmed with a smile by her doctor.

Two heartbeats.

Each evening they sit in bed reading, and she frequently catches Wyatt staring, awestruck, at her growing belly. He dotes on her, fulfills every last craving, rubs her back, massages her feet, ties her shoes, and even shaves her legs when the belly necessitates it.

Although they had already been on the hunt for a house, the news that they're having twins has them doubling their efforts to find a new home. They're certainly not going to be able to care for two infants in their now-overflowing one bedroom, so as Lucy grows bigger (and bigger) they become more and more frantic in their search for the perfect place to call home.

And then it happens. In her 29th week of pregnancy, they find a perfect three bedroom bungalow with a yard and a den and a reasonable commute for each of them. They could probably buy a small island nation of their own for what they pay for the place, but they've got the money and they need the space and it's really pretty perfect, so they take the leap together.

By her 33rd week, they're moving in, with Lucy issuing directives to the movers from her nest on the couch. In her 34th week, Lucy is eating peanut butter with a spoon, the half-empty jar perched on the convenient surface of her belly while Wyatt paints the nursery and Rufus and Jiya engage in a heated argument over who can assemble a crib the fastest.

Her water breaks as she devours an In-N-Out cheeseburger on the Thursday of her 37th week, and their firstborn daughter makes her squealing, squirming debut in a fetching shade of angry-pink at 4:13 on Friday morning. She is followed almost immediately by her very vocal younger sister at 4:26.

Lucy has never felt a purer, more potent love for any living creature. Of that she is certain. And a split-second glance at the expression of utter adoration and devotion on Wyatt's face, the gape to his mouth and the misty softness in his eyes, tells her he feels the same.

The names had been easy, and they'd been using them to refer to the girls since shortly after discovering they were having twin girls.

Flynn Marie. The fighter. Always rolling and kicking and stretching, making her presence known.

Amy Grace. The giver. Always curled up contentedly, relaxing and minding her business in the background.

Flynn and Amy.

It wasn't supposed to be this way, this perfect. But it is.

Two names. Two babies. Pure and unadulterated joy.

* * *

  
  
  
**3.**

Three hours.

It takes him three hours to make the drive from a debriefing in Los Angeles to the unfamiliar address in San Luis Obispo where he's managed to track down a seventy-five year-old woman named Ellen Beauchamp.

He's not supposed to get home until tomorrow, a fact Lucy has been understandably disappointed by, but, to her credit, she had taken the development in stride. Still, he'd been less than thrilled by the situation, and after pulling some strings and fast-tracking some paperwork, he's managed to ensure that he'll make it home by dark.

Just in the nick of time.

It's been more than three years since North Korea, since their release from the bunker and their fight against Rittenhouse, and while they've all managed to trudge forward with admirable aplomb, there's one lingering mystery that Wyatt has been working to solve.

It had only taken a few hours of being back from North Korea for Lucy to wonder about the whereabouts of her locket. Since Chinatown had never happened, she reasoned, she would never have given the trinket to Fei Yunshan, which meant the locket might still be in her possession. Wyatt had watched sympathetically as she systematically tore their room apart, her eyes wild with anticipation, before he had finally convinced her to take a break from the frantic search.

It was Rufus who had finally informed them that, in the current timeline, they hadn't gone to Chinatown, but they had survived a disastrous jump to Haight-Ashbury in June of 1967, where Wyatt and Jiya had gotten separated from Lucy and Rufus. Apparently the Summer of Love had been less than kind to Carol and Nicholas, whose bodies were discovered by Wyatt and Jiya who then found themselves running for their lives from Emma's apparent contracted killer. According to Rufus, Lucy, using the alias Jenny Curran, had given the locket to a young photographer named Ellen as a thank-you for her help in outrunning Emma and driving them back across the Golden Gate to meet up with Wyatt and Jiya so they could retrieve the Lifeboat before Emma could destroy it and strand them.

It had taken some time, but Wyatt had done his research and had located an Ellen Beauchamp whose work had been featured in an exhibition of 1967 photos at the de Young museum in San Francisco. With some additional digging, Wyatt had discovered that the 2023 version of Ellen is a retired professor of fine arts at Cal Poly SLO, and after a fabricating a plausible story to explain his and Lucy's connection to her, Ellen had agreed to meet with Wyatt to assist him with this rather daunting task.

Ellen Beauchamp lives in an immaculate cottage on a cheery street lined with gas lamps and picket fences, and she plies him with coffee and biscotti upon arrival. She's a petite woman with striking hazel eyes, and even now, more than fifty years later in a timeline he doesn't even remember, he feels a rush of gratitude to her for the help she had given to Lucy and Rufus.

"I still remember that day," Ellen waxes nostalgically. "It was one of the most exciting days of my life. You're saying Jenny is your wife's mother?"

"Was," Wyatt amends. "She's, uh, gone now."

"That's too bad," Ellen laments. "She was a lovely woman. And her friend — I think she called him Russell — was very kind as well. I've cherished this locket since the day she gave it to me. I even left the photos in it. She was in such a rush that I think she forgot to take them. It seemed wrong to remove them."

Lifting a small box from the coffee table, she removes the familiar locket from the velvet cushioning and pries it open. The photos of Amy and Lucy are faded, but they're there.

"It's always been a dream of Lucy's to find this locket." He pauses for a moment and takes out his phone, tapping and swiping until he pulls up a photo of Lucy sitting with chubby-cheeked Flynn and Amy in front of the giraffes at the zoo. "This is Lucy with our girls," he explains, holding up the image. While Lucy looks effortlessly beautiful in jeans and sunglasses, the girls are smiling so hard their cheeks look ready to split. Even he can't help but chuckle at the image.

His girls. His three girls.

Ellen smiles, charmed by the sweet image. "She looks exactly like Jenny." She pauses for a moment and squints to get a better look at the image before adding, "It's uncanny, actually."

Wyatt squirms slightly and nods with a smile. "There's definitely a strong resemblance."

"And your girls certainly favor their mother," she points out. "Lovely family. You're very blessed."

"Yes, ma'am," Wyatt agrees. "I am."

"And you really think this locket will mean that much to your wife?" she inquires.

Wyatt nods fervently, explaining, "Lucy is a history professor, so she's especially sentimental about things like this, and she's always been drawn to this locket and the story behind it. I'll happily pay a generous price for it. It just...it would mean a lot to her. It's really the only bit of family history she has left. I've wanted to get it back to her for years now, but it took me awhile to track you down when the only clue I had was a photographer named Ellen."

She nods thoughtfully and explains, "I don't have children. I was never lucky enough to receive that particular blessing. My husband passed away two years ago, and, let's face it, I'm certainly not getting any younger. I've kept the mementos that mean the most to me, but I don't have much of a need for this locket. So if you're telling me that it means this much to your wife, I want her to have it."

Wyatt nods. "I can assure you it does. And I'll gladly pay you for it."

Ellen shakes her head. "I won't accept payment. The way I look at it, it's only right that it goes to her. And maybe it can be passed down to those beautiful girls one day."

With a grateful smile, Wyatt reaches out to shake the older woman's frail hand. "Thank you, ma'am. I don't think I can convey to you how much this is going to mean to her."

"You're a good husband to do this for her," Ellen comments. "She must be very special."

"Amazing, brilliant, and beautiful," he agrees. "And way out of my league, if I'm being honest."

"Something tells me she might disagree," Ellen smiles knowingly. "But I think we should all be so lucky to feel that way about our partners in life. Good luck to you, Mr. Logan."

"And to you, Mrs. Beauchamp. Thank you."

Three more hours.

It will take him another three hours with traffic to make it back to their comfortable bungalow in Menlo Park.

The three hour drive home seems to drag on, and it's dark when he finally pulls up in front of the home they had so painstakingly searched for during Lucy's pregnancy. He can see two red tricycles parked haphazardly on the front porch, and there are two pairs of rain boots — one purple and one teal — just outside the front door. The weather has been rainy, and he suspects there's been some puddle-jumping that's gone on in his absence.

The house is quiet when he steps inside, and he smiles when he sees Lucy emerge almost immediately from the kitchen, barefoot and beautiful in jeans and a t-shirt, a bright smile on her face. "You're back! I thought you weren't going to be back until tomorrow."

Wyatt shakes his head. "You really think I would miss this?"

"Well, the party is tomorrow. I knew you'd be here for that," she shrugs. She leans into him, wrapping her arms around his neck, her fingers toying with the cropped hair at the back of his head. He smiles into the soft kiss she gives him, and releases a contented sigh when she pulls back to look at him, her happiness dancing across her face. "But I'm really glad you're here now. And I have a feeling there are a couple of girls who are going to be joining me on the glad train."

He drops his hands to her narrow waist and gives an affectionate squeeze before pressing one more kiss to her forehead. "I'm glad to be home." With a quick lift of his eyebrows, he looks around quizzically and then wonders theatrically, "Now where are those birthday girls?!"

Peals of giggles ring through the air, and his heart flutters at the giddy cries of "Daddy! Daddy!" Stepping into the bright glow of the kitchen, he grins at the matched pair, their hair in braided pigtails, each of them sitting in their booster seats at the breakfast bar, their plates nearly scraped clean of spaghetti and meatballs.

"We're finishing up with dinner," Lucy grins. She turns to the girls with an excited smile. "Daddy's just in time for cake!"

"You made cake?" Wyatt questions dubiously. He turns to the girls with a look of exaggerated concern on his face, and they giggle at his silliness.

"I bought cupcakes," Lucy huffs in response. "And I bought a sheet cake for tomorrow. She nods at the smaller pink bakery box and holds up a lighter. "You want to help me with this? This is going to be a lot easier with a second pair of hands." She laughs. "Add birthdays to the list of things that are exponentially more stressful with twins."

"Hey, you're the overachiever who decided to be a show-off and carry two kids," Wyatt accuses playfully.

"Yeah," she scoffs. "Because you had no part in that particular act of overachievement." She pauses to take the cupcakes out of the box. "I've got Flynn’s. Will you get Amy’s?"

Nodding, he steps over to the counter and helps her to press three candles into each of the chocolate cupcakes. Lighting them carefully, they sing their own less-than-harmonic version of "Happy Birthday," his off-key voice riding the coattails of Lucy's clear and melodic tone. The girls both laugh and then clap as they take turns blowing out their candles, and then the room goes silent as they each dive into the cakes, mashing chocolate frosting and chocolate cake crumbs into their mouths, noses, between their fingers, and sprinkling the mess onto the floor beneath them.

"You want cake, Mommy?" Flynn questions, holding a handful in Lucy's direction.

"No, thank you, baby," Lucy replies with a soft smile. "You enjoy it."

"Daddy, have some," Amy offers, not to be outdone by Flynn's generosity. "It's yummy."

Wyatt makes a show of grasping her sticky hand and pretending to bite it off, and the girls howl with laughter as Lucy stands watching from a safe distance, her arms crossed over her chest and a bemused smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"So I'm pretty sure it's your turn for bath duty," Lucy remarks nonchalantly as they watch the chocolate massacre unfolding in front of them.

His chuckle rumbles in her ear and she feels the gentle shaking of his laughter as he moves to stand behind her, his chest pressed against her back.

"Happy Birthday," he murmurs, slipping his arms around her from behind, a small box in one hand.

Surprised, she cranes her neck to face him, and he can't help but laugh at the furrow in her brow.

"You realize it's their birthday, right?"

"Sure," Wyatt agrees. "But I was there that day. I'm pretty sure you did all the work. I think moms get a bum rap with this birthday thing. These chocolate-covered monsters wouldn't be here if you weren't such a monumental badass. So I reserve the right to spoil you a little bit on this momentous occasion."

Confused and a little bit intrigued, she reaches out to accept the box before turning in his embrace. Eyeing him suspiciously, she lifts the lid, and he sees the surprise knitted into her expression, followed almost immediately by misty-eyed emotion. She's biting her lip when she lifts her gaze to meet his, and he can see the tears shimmering in her dark eyes. She turns the box to reveal the elusive locket and stares disbelievingly at him.

"Wyatt…" she breathes. "Is this...how did you…?"

"It's the only thing you have left of Amy," he explains simply. "I did take the liberty of making a small adjustment to it." Reaching over, he gently pries the clasp open with his thumbs to reveal the faded but familiar image of her sister on one side — one of the few remnants of their original timeline after all of their jumps and changes and resets. On the other side, he has placed a photo of Flynn and Amy, their dark eyes twinkling, dark pigtails curling daintily atop their heads.

He watches as she stares longingly the much-wished-for image. Lifting it carefully from the box, she lifts the chain over her head, arranging it neatly around her neck, before thumbing the pendant lovingly, the way she always did when they first met. Then she turns her liquid gaze on him, her jaw trembling with emotion over the unbelievable gift. "Thank you," she whispers sincerely. "I love you so much."

For so many years, he had traveled this road on his own. Even during his marriage with Jessica, they'd been two separate vehicles on divergent paths. It's only in the past few years that he's developed a true understanding of partnership. Of complete and total trust in another human. Of love in its purest form. This is it. "I love you, too," he replies.

And in true Logan twin form, the tender moment is cut short when Amy cuts in with her chirpy voice, announcing, "Daddy, I'm three!"

"Me, too!" Flynn chimes in, holding up three chocolate-covered fingers.

He smiles at their excitement and then lowers his mouth to Lucy's ear. "You know, they say good things come in threes," he remarks softly. "I know you're the professor, but I'd like to think that I have irrefutable evidence to support this particular claim."

"Oh yeah? And what's that?"

"Just look around you," he responds.

She does. And she nods.

Three candles. Three years. Three loves.

* * *

 

**4.**

Four words.

Four simple words.

And nothing has gone according to plan. Nothing.

He's been plotting for a year. Okay, that's not entirely true. He's been plotting since the moment she kissed him under the mistletoe in their musty bunker bedroom. They did discuss it a few years ago, but then the girls came and life seemed to hurtle forward at breakneck speed without much consideration for any of their previous plans. He's thought about it constantly in the years since, but twins are a handful. Twin toddlers are more than a handful. And these twins? Daughters of Lucy Preston? Well, they're his heart, mind, and soul. They're quick and inquisitive and passionate and stubborn. They're sweet and beautiful and affectionate. They're all Lucy, although Lucy likes to claim differently. And they're really damn exhausting.

So while it's been on the forefront of his mind for the past several years, it's fallen to the back burner of reality thanks to the dark-haired tornadoes called Flynn and Amy.

Tonight was supposed to be his third attempt. The first had been a weekend getaway to a cozy bed and breakfast up the coast in Mendocino, but then Flynn had managed to fall from the monkey bars and split her chin open at preschool, requiring a set of stitches and a postponement of their escape. The second attempt had been an overnight stay in Napa, where he had planned to pop the question amidst the striking contrast of bright blue sky against the sloping lines of the vivid green vineyards. But then Jiya had called to let them know that Amy was feverish and vomiting and that all she wanted was for her mommy and daddy to come home. They had left in the middle of dinner, their soup still steaming in the bowls as they raced to the car.

Tonight he had tried to keep it simple. It was supposed to be a nice quiet evening out. Olivia was going to come and watch the girls while he and Lucy went to Pietro's for a nice dinner. He wasn't going to make a big show of it — that's not Lucy's style — but he still wanted an element of romance. Candlelight, fine wine, vintage ring. It's the least of what she deserves.

But then Denise had called to inform him that Olivia had broken her ankle during her basketball game and that the whole family was at the hospital waiting for a consult from the orthopedic surgeon. So no Olivia. No Denise. No Michelle. And no Mark.

Strike three.

"It's not a big deal, Wyatt," Lucy had assured him with an amused half-smile and a casual sweep of her hand through his hair. He knows he's scowling like a petulant toddler over the development, and he knows that Lucy has no idea why he's so worked up over a relatively minor hiccup. She looks content and relaxed as always and, not for the first time, he marvels at the fact that this happy and self-assured woman is the same uptight, jaw-clenching, fretting historian he met at Mason Industries so long ago.

Lucy had simply shrugged. "We'll just take the girls with us. It'll be a family night."

So instead of the romantic evening he had planned for them, they'd ended up at a loud family-friendly diner where chicken tenders were the nicest item on the menu, where Flynn cried because she spilled her milkshake, and where Amy cried and refused to eat her fries because Flynn told her they looked like fingers.

Just a typical night with the Logan family.

After dinner, they'd decided to take a short walk to one of the billions of coffee shops on one of the billions of street corners in this idyllic tree-lined city. 

Which brings them to this moment in this very coffee shop.

Where he’s given up.

Four words.

All of this over four words.

"Coffee! Latte! Hot chocolates"

Their order is shouted over the din of the crowded shop just as Wyatt is bent down, attempting to undo the series of knots that have somehow appeared in Flynn's shoelaces. Looking over at Lucy, he sees her fiddling with Amy's hair which is tangled to an impressive degree in her jacket zipper. Lucy gives him a shrug and a pleading look of defeat, and he acquiesces.

"I've got it," he assures her, dropping the shoelace for a moment to approach the coffee counter.

Black coffee for him, latte for Lucy, tiny hot chocolates for the girls. In spite of the fact that this has been his life for years now, these are the little moments that still catch him off-guard. A black coffee from a fast-food drive-thru is no longer the norm. A quick coffee outing has become a huge undertaking. And yes, he does need a cardboard drink carrier these days.

They tag-team the twins when they finally make it home. It's way past bedtime for the girls, so after wiping sticky cocoa-mustaches from their faces and watching them brush their teeth, they help them into little flannel nightgowns and comb the snarls out of their hair. They all pile onto Amy's bed while Lucy does a warp-speed reading of Violet the Pilot and Wyatt completes the compulsory monster inspection. The girls don't even make it to the halfway point of the book before they're both dead to the world, their heads propped against each of Lucy's arms as they sleep. Carefully, Wyatt lifts a sleepy-eyed Flynn into his arms and tucks her gently into her own small bed before kissing her tiny forehead and trading with Lucy to repeat the ritual with Amy.

They both chuckle quietly when they finally make it to the safe haven of their bedroom because their lives have shifted rather erratically from one form of crazy to another, and it's not always clear which is actually the crazier of the two. Wordlessly, they begin the perfectly choreographed ritual of their intertwined nightly routines: showers, pajamas, skincare, toothbrushing.

He's down to a pair of boxers when he looks up to see Lucy through the doorway of the bathroom. She's in a pair of striped cotton sleep pants wearing a t-shirt of his that is so old and faded, he's not even sure what it used to say. She's rubbing lotion into the soft skin of her arms, and he's struck suddenly by the perfection of the moment. He's overwhelmed by the intimacy they've cultivated after years of living and loving and parenting together. He's overcome by the searing intensity of the respect and adoration he feels for her, whether she's brushing her teeth or kissing Flynn's skinned knee or marveling at Amy's crayon art or pressing a soft kiss into the crook of his neck while he makes smiley pancakes for the girls.

There is no one perfect moment because every moment is a part of their perfection.

She's caught off-guard when she emerges from the bathroom to find him kneeling before her, a hint of sparkle visible between his thumb and his forefinger, and she stumbles backwards, her signature clumsiness making a timely appearance.

He chuckles tenderly at the sight.

"Wyatt," she breathes, as she regains her balance and a bit of her composure.

"This isn't how this was supposed to go," he starts. "I had plans for tonight. Actually I've had plans on three different nights now. There was supposed to be delicious food, fancy wine, music, and candlelight. I wanted the moment to be perfect."

There's a wobbly sheen in her eyes as she listens attentively, biting nervously at her bottom lip.

He continues, "You're perfect. The girls are perfect. I could wait for the rest of my life to manufacture the perfect moment, but let's face it. Every moment with you is the perfect moment. Even disastrous evenings like tonight with spilled milkshakes and finger-fries are more perfection that I ever thought I would have the opportunity to experience in my lifetime. So why wait? The longer I wait, the longer I have to go without having you as my wife."

And then those four life-altering words.

""Marry me, Lucy. Please?"

He watches as her jaw rises and falls, as though she's attempting to form words and is unable to do so. And then she nods — first in tiny fluttering motions and then in larger, sweeping ones. "Yes," she finally murmurs. "Absolutely." And then again for good measure. "Yes!"

The rose-cut diamond is vintage, of course. It catches light from every possible angle, and the sparkle is so vibrant it's almost distracting. He's still on one knee when he slips it onto her finger, so she grabs him by the shoulders to drag him up for a long kiss. She's breathless with excitement when they separate, and he's not sure the smile could even be chiseled from his face.

She nearly tackles him then, her lips pressing fervently against his, her hands cupping and toying reverently at the back of his neck. He meets her fervency with a charged energy of his own, sucking and nipping playfully, thankful that this is still so much fun even after all this time. Pulling her back towards their bed, he drops when he feels the mattress bump the back of his knees, and he pulls her down on top of him, smiling against her lips when she lets out a surprised yelp.

The rain starts then, the soft patter growing more and more rapid until there's steady sizzle of sound outside, and there's something cozy about the warmth of their bed and the heat of their kisses, the fit of his hand as it frames her jawline, and the curtain of dark hair that falls around them as she drops her mouth to his.

There's a faint rolling sound then, almost a growl, and it causes them to pause comically, mid-kiss, as they each listen for a repeat of the noise. They exchange knowing looks when it happens again, the low rumble of thunder just a bit louder this time, and they both jerk with surprise when a bolt of lightning shocks the walls of their bedroom with intense blue flashes. The room is silent once more, and Lucy smiles coyly at Wyatt before dropping her lips back to his and then letting her hand trace a teasing trail down his chest and towards the waistband of his boxers.

But then they hear it. A tiny whimper over one of the two baby monitors that still rest on their respective bedside tables. The keening sound is enough to startle Lucy, prompting her to raise her head from where she's now draped across Wyatt.

"That's Amy," she murmurs, her chin resting on his chest, her lips swollen slightly from their earlier exertion.

Wyatt is already up and tugging a t-shirt over his head, and he’s about to assure her that he'll take care of it, when they both hear the soft taps of tiny feet and see the widening wedge of light from the hallway. Two dark heads peer into the room, and then Flynn scampers over to their bed, followed closely by Amy.

"Daddy, it's scary," Amy whines pitifully, her dark eyes huge and fearful in the faint silvery light.

Flynn climbs up the side of their bed, planting herself solidly in her mother's lap, fixing her frightened eyes on Lucy. "Can we sleep here?”

Four words.

Amy turns to him. "Please, Daddy. Can we?"

Four more.

They're not the four words he had planned the night around, but they might be even better. Within minutes, he and Lucy get the girls tucked and nestled in the safe den of blankets at the center of the large bed, and before they know it, they're listening to the rhythmic rally of sleepy puffs and snores coming from each tiny mouth and mingling with the sounds of the storm.

Leaning over the girls, he presses a kiss to Lucy's lips, and notes with satisfaction the hint of sparkle that glints from her left hand.

"Sorry," she whispers with a shrug and a loving glance at the girls.

"For what?" he wonders, his own tone hushed.

Four hearts snuggled beneath one large blanket. It's perfection.

 

 

* * *

**  
5.**

Five o'clock.

The alarm is deafening, and she buries her head beneath her pillow until Wyatt turns it off. She feels his lips press against the back of her neck, and then she feels the mattress shift as he rolls out of bed.

The alarm always blares at five o'clock. Even when he doesn't have anywhere to be, Lucy has learned that Wyatt likes to follow a strict morning routine. On most mornings, he rolls out of bed and goes for a quick run before returning and pressing a sweaty good morning kiss to her cheek as she dozes. But then there are the days when he punches the snooze button and rolls over to her side of the bed, pulling her into his arms and pressing his nose into the crook of her neck, where they savor the quiet for as long as they can until the girls make their raucous entrance for the day.

But the day always starts at five o'clock.

Today is no different, even if it feels like it should be.

She wonders sometimes if maybe they time-traveled forward without recollection of the trip, because there's no way it's been five years since they let the tarp fall over the Lifeboat for the last time.

And yet here they are. And everything has changed.

Just over five years ago her world had been decimated around her, and a part of her was wishing that she could have just crumbled along with it. Her sister had been erased. Her mother had betrayed her and then been killed. Her feelings for Wyatt had been kindled to a delicate flame only to be extinguished by the return of Jessica. And then the loss of Jiya. The loss of Rufus. And eventually the loss of Flynn.

Five years have passed, but if she stops and really thinks about it, she finds herself right back in the dim chill of that unforgiving bunker — perched on the edge of her cot feeling hopeless — with none of the warmth, the color, the softness she sees as she looks at her life today.

The house is still quiet in the predawn lowlight, and the glow of the sunrise is just starting to leak across the maple floorboards of their bedroom. Wyatt has returned from his run and finished his shower, and she can hear the low buzz of his electric razor through the narrow opening of the bathroom door. She shivers slightly when she rolls out from beneath the warmth of the blankets on their bed, and she runs her fingers through her snarled mess of hair as she ventures out of their room. Her bare feet slap softly against the floor as she makes her way just down the hall to wake the girls.

Flynn's bedroom door is ajar, and Lucy knows what that means. Although the girls have their own rooms now, it's not uncommon for one of them to wake up in the middle of the night and creep stealthily into the room of the other. Sure enough, when she opens the door, she sees the two of them sleeping soundly beneath the pale turquoise quilt on Flynn's bed. Flynn is flat on her back, her hair in tangles around her shoulders, her mouth slightly agape. Amy is curled up on her side, the legs of her pajamas tugged up, and Hilda the purple hippo clutched beneath one arm.

It's a sight so ordinary she can predict it before she even sees it. And yet it's something she never thought she'd have or see. Her daughters. Two beautiful, strong-willed, vivacious, loving little girls. Flynn, her fierce little fighter who already challenges them with her stubbornness and her feisty spirit, and Amy, her kind little philanthropist who has an innate softness and empathetic soul. They're two parts of her heart, the pieces of herself she never knew she was missing.

This is what she fights for today.

This is what will give her the strength to return to the Lifeboat and hand her well-worn journal over to a grieving Garcia Flynn. It's the day she's been dreading because it threatens the very fabric of the life she's managed to weave with Wyatt. But not going through with the trip will most certainly unravel the world as she knows it, and it's just not a risk she's willing to take.

  
  
  
Five o'clock.

The campus-wide bells chime the hour.

Her last class of the day ends at five o'clock, and her stomach is already knotted with anxiety as she thinks about the events that are set to transpire later in the evening.

The lecture goes well, and she's trailed by the usual suspects who like to pepper her with questions on the subject of the day. Some of them are genuinely interested in history and some of them are genuinely interested in wheedling their way towards an A, but she feels particularly rushed today and makes a brisk exit with a couple of her most persistent students at her heels.

Wyatt and the girls like to meet her on Friday evenings after her final lecture. They usually play in the courtyard for a little while before they take turns deciding on dinner for the night. Wyatt usually opts for burgers, Lucy for Chinese, Amy for macaroni and cheese, and Flynn for pizza, so there's usually a pretty predictable monthly rotation.

Tonight, however, is different.

She can hear them before she can see them. The girls are squealing gleefully as they dart towards Wyatt and then happily dodge his embrace, and she smiles at the sight. He's good dad. A wonderful dad, actually, and while she never for a minute doubted that he would be, he still astounds her with the depth of his love and his patience and his enthusiasm when it comes to the girls.

The skirt of her polka-dotted dress billows slightly as she rushes down the stairs to greet her babies. Flynn spots her first and comes running, and Amy is quick to follow. She's always happy to see her family after a long day of work, but today she feels especially tender towards the beautiful girls who really have no clue of what's at stake in the night to come. She holds them just a little bit tighter today and reminds herself: this is why she fights.

The girls are babbling happily in the backseat as they make their way to a place that, unbeknownst to them, is simultaneously as fresh as a photograph and as distant as a watercolor to their apprehensive parents. Lucy and Wyatt are unusually quiet as they ponder the potential repercussions of what's to come, and they exchange the occasional sidelong glance as they allow themselves to be distracted by preschool chatter.

"Mommy! Daddy! Did you know that we have eggs at school? We're going to hatch baby chickens!" Flynn cries excitedly, bouncing energetically in her seat.

Amy nods happily. "The eggs are in a inc...incub…" She pauses as she tries to recall the proper term. "An incubator! To keep them warm!"

"Can we have a chicken? We can take care of it," Flynn assures them.

"Promise," Amy adds, making a criss-crossing motion over her heart with her tiny finger.

"We'll talk about it later," Lucy replies vaguely with a knowing glance at Wyatt who's smirking silently in the driver's seat.

"That means no," Flynn whispers to Amy, who nods sadly in agreement.

Wyatt changes the subject as he turns the car down the bumpy gravel driveway that will take them all the way back to the bunker. "Are you excited about your sleepover?"

The simple question sends the girls into excited fits of squeals and giggles and successfully steers the conversation away from the topic of chickens.

Lucy reaches over the console to take his hand, she gives it an affectionate squeeze.

 

  
  
 

The Lifeboat looks exactly the same. Untouched by time. Oh, the irony.

"She's aged well," Wyatt cracks with a self-satisfied chuckle as they stand in front of the vessel, their fingers linked.

Rolling her eyes, Lucy gives his hand a squeeze. "You know, I never really believed that dad jokes could be an instant side effect of fatherhood, but you've definitely proven me wrong over the years. You weren't this dorky until the girls were born."

"The girls think I'm hilarious," he retorts.

"They're four," Lucy returns dryly. "They also believe wholeheartedly in Santa, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy. And they believe Rufus when he tells them that he was the one to discover a rare creature called the Chocodile. They're smart, but they're not the most discerning of audiences."

"Hey!" Wyatt protests. "I'm pretty sure I saw Amy correcting a grammatical error in her Highlights magazine on the way here. And I'm ninety-nine percent certain that Flynn was the one who reprogrammed the GPS to speak French. Don't underestimate them."

The sound of Denise Christopher's footsteps distracts them from their playful banter, and before they know it, they're joined by Mason, Jiya, and Rufus just before they climb into the eye of the Lifeboat one last time.

She fumbles a bit with the seatbelts after five years away, and she smiles fondly when Wyatt reaches over to make sure she's buckled in safely.

She's silent as she reaches for him. He's wordless as he reaches back.

This trip is personal.

 

 

Five o'clock.

The alarm on Wyatt's watch beeps obnoxiously, and Lucy shakes her head as he reaches down to silence it.

They're back. They're safe. They've made it through hours of debriefing (and a bit of catching up) with the rest of the team, and they're free to go — just in time to see the sunrise.

The girls are sleeping soundly on the old bunker couch, and Lucy and Wyatt approach with a newfound lightness now that the single greatest burden on their shoulders is the question of how they're going to get both girls out to the car without waking them.

It's over. Really and truly this time.

"Hey," she whispers softly as they both gaze through the darkness at the rise and fall of two precious little chests. She's been struck with a realization.

"Yeah?"

"Happy Anniversary," she remarks. "It seems like we were just here, getting ready to venture out of a real-life nightmare." She bumps him playfully with her hip, but her words are all sincerity. "I honestly don't know if I could have done it without you by my side."

"Five years," he murmurs.

"Feels like a lifetime," Lucy comments softly as she reaches down to brush a hand over Amy's back before scooping her off the couch.

"Five years is a lifetime," he insists, reaching down to lift Flynn into his arms. The little girl whines softly in protest and then seems to recognize the warmth of her father, so she settles placidly against his chest, her small fist clenched around the fabric of his shirt. Wyatt looks pointedly at Flynn and then at Amy as if to prove his point. "Do you even remember life without them?"

Amy is nestled in Lucy's embrace, her cheek resting against her mother's shoulder. She's snoring softly, little puffs of noise escaping with each breath, and Lucy turns to press a kiss against her dark hair. "I do," she says. "But I can only look back at those days with the knowledge that this is where we end up. That pain is only bearable because I know what it yielded in the end. Without this, none of it was worth it."

A long stretch of silent understandings rolls between them.

"Ready to go home?" Wyatt inquires, smiling tiredly at her.

She nods and then remarks, "You know, a lot has happened in the last five years." She smiles playfully before asking, "You sure you're up for another five?"

"With you?"

Lucy nods and reaches down to brush a soothing hand over the soft flannel of Amy's nightgown.

He feigns uncertainty and then shrugs to give his words a casual air. "I suppose I can handle it."

Lucy tosses him a knowing smile and nods in agreement. They both know the truth.

With practiced movements, they make their way to the car and manage to get the girls buckled into their seats without so much as a whimper from either of them. A literal miracle.

"Hey, Wyatt?" Lucy turns to him after buckling her seatbelt.

He shifts in his seat, looking questioningly at her, thinking maybe they forgot something back in the bunker.

With a slight head-tilt, she gives him a sweet smile. "Thanks for doing this life thing with me. I love you."

They each lean over the console, their lips meeting squarely in the middle, and just as she's about to pull away, she feels his hand on her cheek, his thumb strumming her cheekbone, anchoring her in place.

"Lucy, I could spend five _lifetimes_ with you and it wouldn't be enough."

She leans into his touch, closing her eyes in an effort to fully absorb the moment. Their two perfect daughters are sound asleep in the backseat and they're about to drive to their perfectly normal house to carry on with their perfectly normal Saturday, which will probably consist of happy-face pancakes, a rigged game of Candyland, and swinging at the park.

They've gone from having nothing to having everything.

Five years. What a difference they can make.

**END**

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you got even a glimmer of enjoyment from this little endeavor. Feedback is, as always, appreciated. Thanks for reading!


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